WRITING GALLERY - DECEMBER 2025

A TRUE BLUE AUSSIE CHARACTER
by Trevor

     There are certain qualities that distinguish Aussies as being “True Blue”. There is neither colour nor creed that determines who they are, and they are found wherever people congregate; in towns and cities, in families, in organisations, in work places, probably even in prisons. There is no age bracket and, nor is it gender based. “He’s a fair dinkum, little Aussie, that kid.”

     “The ‘Aussie of the Month’ Award goes to Julie Judd.”
    “You can always depend on old George to turn up and pitch in, at a working bee. True blue bottler, that bloke.”
    “Mrs Simmo is true blue. Always has a kind word for everyone, and has no fears about rolling up her sleeves.”

     There is no one forum for this kind of recognition.

     Thangool is renowned for its “True Blue” citizens, and the town and district’s reputation is acknowledged, far and wide. I penned 'Tribute to Bob Moschioni,' and presented it at the 1998 Thangool Advancement Association Inc Annual General Meeting. The tribute could have been shared with any number of members of this organization.

TRIBUTE TO BOB MOSCHIONI

In every little village – larger country town, as well –

there’s a backbone kind of person that the locals wouldn’t sell:

the one you can rely on to complete the last odd job

and, in our midst, there’s such a bloke. We call him “Backhoe Bob.”

He’s been around for sixty years – was schooled at Harrami.

He spent some time as a convent kid (though we often wonder why).

It was when he made the big, wide world that he gained an education,

by working hard with his back and hands – thIs founds this dedication.

They sent him off to “Nasho” and supplied him with a gun.

Taught him how to cross barbed-wire and other sorts of fun.

On his discharge, he headed for the city, ridgy-didge,

to learn the fundamentals of how to fix a fridge.

Once he’d breathed his share of “Big Smoke” air, and got back to his senses –

and Imelda came upon the scene, to stop him jumping fences,

and Lenore and Ken took up the time he’d budgeted for playing;

he threw the anchor. Settled down. Prematurely greying.

He took to milking dairy cows, producing milk and cream.

Tending to his poddy calves – their quality, supreme.

Like the farmers ‘round him, he built a little sty,

to house his pigs for ham and pork and bacon, by and by.

‘Twas on one milking morning, when over from that sty,

he heard a farrowing pig squeal, as a crow pecked at her eye.

He grabbed a gun. Took careful aim and fired off a round.

The crow flew off. Bob swore in shock, as a porker hit the ground!

In the regular style of country boys, Bob had to own a truck.

Carted furniture, fuel and stock – whatever, to earn a buck.

He learned to tie a Cobb and Co. To solder, weld and sand –

a thousand skills directing him to becoming a handyman.

He moved to town. Folk saw those skills. His worth became quite clear.

With blokes like Webby, ‘Mos, John Bourne, he became a volunteer.

The time he’d set aside for play, was spent at working bees,

constructing footpaths, toilet blocks and planting lots of trees.

When a backhoe joined his truck, this increased his worth.

He could put in irrigation schemes and shift great mounds of earth.

When the Rec Hut came along, who nailed in that last plank?

It wasn’t Bob. He was out the back, fitting the septic tank.

Thangool’s profile changed, when “Tidy Towns” came on the scene.

We now have champion gardens, where eye-sores once had been.

The lawns are mowed and kids can play on structures that are sound 

and each a contribution that Bob’s made, to our town.

In his busy schedule, he still has time to spare,

to hit a golf-ball, sink a red, and back a horse, somewhere.

The schoolgrounds look immaculate. He owns a bus, “The Kernel”.

His devotion to his grandkids, is bordering on eternal.

He must have joined a dozen clubs, and run them from the chair.

He’s just as good a committee-man, as you’d find, anywhere.

“Sir Bobby” could have found a seat, up in the House of Lords.

We gave him recognition, with an Aussie Day Award.

And so, tonight, we thank out Bob, for how our town’s maintained.

His history, in our township, deserves to be ordained –

for, when Yankee Doodle went to town a-riding on a pony …

he couldn’t have made an impact, like Silvio “Bob” Moschioni!

OAM

For his service to community, the word had passed around.

The Governor invited all Bob’s folk, down to Brisbane town.

Tea and sangas, on the lawn. The multitude applauded,

as the Order of Australia Merit, to Bobby, was awarded.

NEVER FORGET A FACE
by Malcolm

 You often hear people saying: “He’s quite a character” and sometimes I agree with them. At other times I recall one of my grandmother’s favourite sayings “Empty vessels make the most noise”. Over the years I have encounter numerous people I consider characters, but they weren’t loud and obnoxious, they were just fun loving, devil-may-care characters. As someone who played rugby for fifty years, from schoolboy to Golden Oldie I met many such characters on the field or in pubs and clubs, but some have surprised me by cropping up when I didn’t expect it.

     In the 1980’s I was living in Sydney and working for a glazing company. One day I was sent out to repair a couple of windows in a house in one of the more affluent suburbs. A man answered the door, and after he showed me the work required he asked “So what part of England are you from. 

     “A town called Bournemouth, on the south coast” I replied.
    “Judging from your accent you must be from Scotland.”

     He nodded. “Born in Glasgow, but I came here with my family as a teenager, and I’m now an Aussie citizen.”

     After I had finished the repairs I went inside to clean up. He insisted I have a cuppa and asked me about what had brought me across the world. He was impressed that I had fallen in love with an Aussie girl who had been on a working holiday in England; and had married her in order to cross the world with her and have a clear conscience about sleeping with her in her parent’s home.

    It turned out he was a big soccer fan, and a follower of my hometown team. When I left I felt we really bonded, and he even phoned my boss to apologise for keeping me longer than necessary, saying he had found other work to do, and they were to bill him for that.

   When I arrived home that afternoon I related the story to my wife. “He was a really nice bloke” I told her, but he seemed to have a fixation with what must have been copies of gold records and other memorabilia with my favourite group the Easybeats.”

    “Did you mention it to him?” she asked.

    “I didn’t like to, in case he thought I was being too nosey.”

     She walked over to my stack of albums next to the record player; and pulled one of the albums out. “Is he in the photo on this album cover?’"

     I groaned when I recognised one of the faces looking back at me. I couldn’t believe I had spent an hour or so chatting to George Young, member of the famous Easybeats, and brother of Angus and Malcolm from AC/DC; and hadn’t recognised him despite all the clues I had seen. That was certainly one character I would never forget.

CHARACTER
by Julie

     Oxford English Dictionary:
“Good character” refers to someone with moral and ethical strength, often described as possessing traits like honesty, integrity, dependability, and fairness”.
A “bad character” can mean a morally corrupt or wicked person.”

      They were puzzled when Jim arrived at their office; transferred from another region.  There was no vacancy and they were unaware of a new position being created. Had they known, at least three of them would have applied to this higher level, higher pay role.  So are the ways of the Public Service.

     However, they were generally pleased as Jim was charming, friendly, and according to the females, was extremely handsome.  His appointed desk was next to Kevin, a fellow about the same age but who had an awful brain injury caused when he was a child.  He had taken a severe blow to the head and had been in a coma for ten days.  He spoke adoringly of his mother who never left his side during that time, and who became his greatest champion when he was able to go back to school; now as a kid with challenges.  He wobbled a lot when he walked, occasionally knocking things over and bumping into things. He stuttered and often, when he was excited, would emit a huge spray of spittle.  His mother died and there was now no-one to provide him with care and guidance. His hygiene was often left wanting and his clothing worn for days on end. However, if kindly reminded to shower and clean up he did his best and took no offence. Greatly in his favour was his mathematical ability to solve very complex problems that often arose with departmental financial management. He was a valued asset.

     From the start Jim asked to be moved to another part of the office, and it took an episode with Kevin for this to happen.  Wobbling behind Jim’s desk one day Kevin bumped him from behind.  What ensued horrified all in the office.  He let fly with a torrent of abuse – hurtfully personal – with much yelling and screaming. To the puzzlement  of all, he was allowed to stay on and was moved.

     Strange things started happening; keys from the car pool went missing, files needed the following morning for court went missing, a computer working well one day,  working no longer, and one day faecal matter in the carpet.  But in his favour,  Jim was always the first to work, clocking on up to an hour before anyone else, and turning up one day with a brand-new pair of shoes for Kevin, saying they were too small for him. However, increasingly something with Jim did not seem right.  He then claimed that working with us was causing him terrible stress and so stress leave was granted. We then found out he was transferred to us after punching a colleague in the face in his previous office and threatening to sue management for causing him stress. While on leave he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and subsequently died not long after.

     When news of his death was given to the staff, one was heard to say “good riddance to bad rubbish,” another drew on the notice board the latest emoji character – a Pile of Poo.

SIR ALBERT OF GRANTLEY
by Lesley

NIGHT NOISES
by Paul

     There’s someone in the house.

     In the crawlspace between sleep and awake the creak came again. John’s eyes snapped open, uncertain whether he’d imagined it. Listening to the silence, he stared up into the dark, mentally separating night noises into piles of known and not, heart thumping. There was the dull whirr of the central heating, and beside him Elena’s slow, familiar breathing. From outside only the lonely call of a nightbird, followed by an uncertain challenge from next door’s dog.

     Careful not to wake Elena he eased himself out of bed, and groped for his robe, allowing time for his eyes to adjust. 

     Maybe it had just been another nightmare?

     As if in response the sheers covering the window rippled; the breeze behind it cold and unforgiving. He shivered, then remembered with a clenching certainty that he’d closed that window before coming to bed last night.

     Firming his lips he slipped on the robe, cinching it tight before moving to the door. It was ajar, but they always left it like that, for Cynthia. She was still young enough to sometimes come through.

     Cynthia?

     John eased the door open and peeked out. Moonlight from the feature window at the end of the mezzanine spilled along the empty hallway.

     He stepped out and listened again. There was the reassuring hum of the fridge downstairs and the warm hush from the central heating above … then, a click, like a door latch softly closing. He chanced a look over the balustrade into the lounge room below. The ambient glow from his phone charging on the coffee table illuminated the immediate space around it, but was not strong enough to penetrate the room’s dark corners. After a held breath he crept forward, stepping over the few creaky floorboards that Elena was always on at him to replace.

     Elena. Should he have closed the window before leaving her? Locked the door?

     He resolved to do so as soon as soon as he’d checked on Cynthia. Passing the hall table between the two bedrooms his fingers closed around a crystal bud vase and hefted it. As a weapon it wasn’t much, but it had a heavy base. He reached his daughter’s door. It was not quite closed. Elena had tucked her in last night. Had she left the door open? He found himself wishing, then praying that she had. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and shouldered his way into the room, raising the crystal vase, ready to hurl, or strike. He paused, lowering his arm. Cynthia’s elephant night light outlined the shape of his sleeping daughter. He slumped, exhaling the coiled tension away before walking over. Smiling, he lifted the doona to settle it over her.

That’s when he saw the note. A band tightened around his chest as he picked it up, angling the page to catch the light. “I spared her life tonight. Now go downstairs and answer your phone.” Distantly, the distinctive trill of his phone sounded.

FROM THE SPIRIT WORLD
by Valda

     She stood a few metres away with a glowered sullen look. Her dark eyes inquisitive but wary. Dark brown nipples hung  below her waist from feeding the piglet she nestled in her arms.

     Her lips were bright red from chewing betel nuts and she spat a stream of red juice onto the ground. Her age was indiscernible with two small children clinging to her legs terrified of the white person standing before them.

     A billum hung from her head holding a small baby and a grass skirt covered her lower half. Her swollen belly indicated either another pregnancy or ‘pig bel’ a disease that threatened the women in this remote highlands area, caused by being last to eat, and consuming the undercooked  brains of a pig.

     She slowly turned away, her hips swaying, and her children never leaving her side. She had gardens to tend, the fire to keep alight and cooking for her man who had spent the night in the long house with the other males in this remote highlands village where white people were from another world, the spirit world.

A GOOD MAN
by Cindi

     Somewhere in the Bible it says, ’By their works shall ye know them.’

     He would have been the first one to snort with laughter if you told him you thought he was a good man. “Jane,” he would say,” you REALLY don’t know me!” And he’d be right, but over the years I’ve seen the results of his actions and his friendships, his offbeat kindnesses, and the casual respect he always receives.

Yes, now and then he places a few bets on horses that lose well and he does party hard with his long time mates and suffers the next day and never learns. He was always sought after as a hard worker; has a really good whinge now and again, and will sometimes flatten your ear, telling you how the world’s problems can be sorted out. He is just an ordinary Aussie bloke.

     Forty years ago he took on an abandoned wife struggling to bring up two wild boys and brought stability into their lives. Love and hard graft carried them through rambunctious years. Now they have bright modern grandchildren to tease and admire. At the time he probably would have told you, “win, win situation mate, ready-made family!” It was a brave step into the unknown for a young man.

     He is down-to-earth: he is male so he tends to grunt in answer sometimes, and he often omits telling when he is likely to arrive home. Nearing retirement age now, he takes on work that interests or challenges him, choosing people he enjoys working for. Imagine the illusive joy of employing a tradie who genuinely believes in cleaning up after himself! At last he is able to have time to be creative for his own pleasure and uses discarded parts, diverting interesting bits headed for the dump, and uses timber offcuts to make useful garden sculptures; satisfying and impressive. Perhaps picture an optimum outdoor home for your rain gauge!

     I now miss the good looks of this abrupt Australian, the sexy partner of my good friend as he chooses to hide behind increasingly long blond hair and a bushy, very overgrown beard. All that hair will soon be white and his kids and grandkids are already making digs about a Santa Claus lookalike. They obviously have Christmas plans for him.

     Who knows how a good man is made; kind parents, good genes, a respectful upbringing? Where does a caring nature come from and with it the strength of mind to see difficult situations through to good conclusions? There will be a formula: but this is real life and no one can be perfect. This is a very imperfect world so appreciate the good men in your life. There is somehow peacefulness around such people.

PROLOGUE
by Melinda

     Life is a series of vignettes.

     I’m a 4-year-old sitting on mama’s knee in the kitchen. There is a reassuring smell of soup on the stove and cake baking in the oven. Mama reads to me from a book that smells new and important. It has illustrations in shades of black, white, orange and olive. making the characters come to life. 

     I’m 5 or 6 and I’m in the garden with Mama planting and watering seeds that magically turn into horseradish, cabbage and more. We tend and pick asparagus. Later, I excel at school and plan to be a cartographer. I develop a life-long love of football and am regularly on the fields with teammates. But reality slaps me around the head in 1924 when I am forced out of school in Year 12 to join the family business and become a baker.  I resent it. I accept it.

     Now it’s 1936. Nienburg, Germany. There’s a knock on my door. I’m 28 years old. It’s a grim day and I know immediately what the knock portends. Wehrpflicht. Conscription. I’m to report to the Wehrmacht on Friday morning.

     However, Friday morning finds me with other ideas. Damn Hitler. Damn politics! After a short day of work, skies grey and wet, I’m down at the noisy tavern nestled into the banks of the Weser River with a beer glass in front of me and ein kleines glas (a vodka) in my hand. I shout the bar. We drink another and then another.

     Next thing I remember I’m in the brig waking up with an almighty headache. I’m given a choice. Join the Wehrmacht immediately or face the firing squad. The Wehrmacht looks like the better option. My hobby as a glider pilot and my interest at school in cartography suit me to my new role in the control tower of a small military airport between Nienburg and Hamburg.

     1942. Blue skies. Birds singing. Boats moving through the canals. I’m on furlough in Amsterdam. A girl in distress catches my attention. “Verdomd!” she exclaims and repeats, “Verdomd!” "Damned!" 
    Beautiful. Brunette. Hollander. She’s struggling to make an adjustment to the back wheel of her bike.

She gladly accepts my help. Her name is Annie. Playful. Intriguing. Later she shakes my hand to thank me. I slip a ring off her middle finger and examine it. To get it back she’ll have to meet me at the same time and place tomorrow. We meet. A week later, I’m meeting her parents. Her dad Ton, and I, end up at the local having a beer and ein kleines glas and I soon have permission to court Annie. The war, the uniform, the culture. None of it matters. A year later Annie and I marry. A year after that, in 1944 our baby girl is born.

     By now food is scarce in Amsterdam. We sneak Annie and the baby onto a German troop-carrying train. It’s illegal. Civilians are not allowed on the zug. An inspector walks by checking each carriage before we leave the station. The German soldiers stand up en masse to hide Annie and the baby. 

     In Nienburg, Annie is conscripted to work in a munitions factory with other local women and with female prisoners of war; separated only by razor wire. Annie finds a way each day to sneak bread and cheese through the wire.

     I soon learn of strange comings and goings at our family home. My father assures me that it is just deliveries for the bakery. After the war, I learn the true story, and this is where my tale begins.

PERCIVAL AND PENNY'S ROMANCE
by Meryl

     Percival (Percy) Penguin is a fine looking chap with his glossy blue/black coat and pristine white shirt. He had been spending his time lazing at the local resort but over the last couple of days had been renovating his new home. He is in his prime and is looking for a lady friend. Penelope (Penny) is a sweet young damsel who is eyeing off the chaps. Who is that sleek fellow swimming towards her? Its her old playmate Percy.

     At dusk Percy comes up to Penny and says “Hi.”
She hangs her head but is looking at him out of the corner of her eye. She nods him and simpers. Percy looks pleased and says “Come and see what I’ve prepared for the season.” She thinks he is a bit forward but is curious. He leads her up the hill and shows her the beautiful home. She is impressed and says, “Someone will be a lucky lady.” Looking coy.

     Percy looks proud and says “That someone could be you if you would be my partner.”
She simpers and says, “I’ll think about it.” And all a quiver waddles off down to the beach and out to sea.

     Next evening, they meet again on the beach and she tells him, “I would love to join you in our new home.

     They settle into the home with its overhanging ferns and grasses at the front door. She helps him gather some grass to make a comfortable bed. They consummate their union and bill and coo all night. Now it is Percy’s time to leave for a decent meal and Penny settles down to renovate to her liking.

     After a couple of days Percy returns at dusk and is welcomed by Penny. She whispers to him “I am sure I am having a little one.” She looks down coyly.

     “Oh that was quick.” Says Percy. Pleased with himself.

     After a night of loving Penny says “I had better get back to sea for some decent food.”

     They take it in turns to go to sea for a few days eating and exercising while the other one cleans their home. Penny lays two eggs. Will they be Phillip or Philomena?

     After about 5 weeks it turns out to be one of each. Lovely fluffy black bundles. Phil and Philo are very hungry and Percy and Penny have to take it in turns to feed them. After about 3 weeks Phil and Philo have grown so big that they are filling the burrow and Phil being the more adventurous pushes his way-out into the sunshine. What a silly mistake as a hovering gull snatches him. What will Philo tell her parents?

     “Never mind they say, it’s all in the way of the world.”

     All the more food for Philo. Philo has moulted to get her sleek blue/black overcoat and is ready to try swimming a couple of weeks later. Percy and Penny sigh with relief and go out to sea again to socialise.

A few weeks later Penny is starting to itch and is losing her sleek feathers. She meets up with Percy on the beach and he is looking a dishevelled as she feels. They ignore each other for the next 2 weeks while they have a fashion makeover. Looking much better they make their way down to the beach at dawn and each goes in different directions for fun, frolics and food before meeting again and doing it all over again.

INNER STRENGTH
by Sallie